Obvious
by RegenbogenLolly
Summary: Molly is trying her hardest to make Sherlock feel like himself again after the fall. Fluff and adventure ensues! Post-Reichenbach. Molly/Sherlock, or Sherlolly pairing. Rated T because there may be mild language in some chapters. COMPLETE! :)
1. You Can be so Ignorant

**Side note: This is meant to be right after the Reichenbach Fall. Also, there are going to be a lot of chapters in this story. I don't know exactly how many, but I have 8 planned out so far. I'll post new chapters as soon as I can. Thank you so much for reading, and please R&R! *by the way, I love feedback of every kind, even if it's negative. I want to improve as a writer as much as I can, and I should start improving now since this is my first fanfic. Thank you!***

**ALSO: The word count in the story description is actually a whole lot less than there really are. None of these chapters are ever going to be less than 1,000 words, trust me! :)**

**OKAY, NOW ON WITH THE FANFICTION.**

"Oh, come on," Molly chided her phone gently, although she knew it couldn't hear. She'd gotten a text from someone, but it was refusing to unlock when she slid the arrow at the bottom. She sighed and slid her phone in her coat pocket, assuming it was something Sherlock had to ask her, and decided that she could ask him once she got back to her flat.

_Ask Sherlock when she got back to her flat_. That still sounded so strange to her. After the fall, he obviously had to go somewhere, and it only made sense for him to live there if he was going to continue to stay in London. Molly was the only one who knew he wasn't actually dead; even John had no idea. This, of course, made her feel guilty, but since she knew he'd make his return once he killed Moriarty's men, all would be all right again.

Her phone buzzed again, and she took it out, hoping that maybe it worked now. Unfortunately, it didn't. All it had was the same disappointing 'slide to unlock' with a next to empty dialog box that only had 'New Message' at the top. She frowned, knowing it was Sherlock needing something. Even though he was difficult to live with at times, she still hated to let him down. Not that he'd never let her down, but… there was some trait that he had that made her never want to disappoint him. It was stupid, but she couldn't help it. Every time she saw him she was putty in his hands, and she couldn't decide whether he used her with that or not.

When she got to her flat and opened the door, she wasn't surprised to see the tall, handsome Sherlock sitting in a rocking chair with the newspaper. "Hello, Sherlock!" she greeted him cheerfully. "Were you trying to text me?" Sherlock glanced up. "Oh, yes. Could you please turn that light switch on over there?" Molly blinked, and began to stutter. "Um, o-okay. Got it." She was used to Sherlock requesting odd things, but why would he ask her to turn on a light switch, of all things?

"Molly?" Sherlock said with a slightly questioning tone in his voice.

"Oh! Sorry!" Molly said, snapping back to reality, and went to flip the switch. The lights flickered slightly, and then stayed there, bright.  
It was then that Molly saw a massive gash on Sherlock's forehead. She gasped and rushed over to him. "Sherlock, you're bleeding," she said, and hovered over the cut with her hands, not knowing what to do. Sherlock usually didn't like it when anybody touched him, and she didn't want to irritate him. However, he was bleeding…

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "It's not too bad, though." Molly stared at him. "There's blood coming out of the side of your head, and a lot of it. I wouldn't exactly call that 'not too bad.'" Her eyes trailed down the side of his face, and she saw that the blood was beginning to stream from the gash even faster down his head. It was almost like the cut was expanding. "Oh God," she said softly. "Okay, well. Um." She was trying to figure out how to react. The blood was coming out faster and faster, and it looked as if his pale skin was somehow getting paler. She didn't want Sherlock to get angry that she was going to doctor his cut, but it was like he couldn't even feel it. "I'll clean that for you," she said quickly, and her doctor instincts kicked in. "It's fine, Molly. It'll stop eventually. It just looks bad because of all the blood." Sherlock said, even though he definitely sounded pained. "Sherlock, that's ridiculous!" Molly said, rushing back from the bathroom with her first aid kit. "Sure, it'll stop, if you bleed to death!" Sherlock sighed. "Well that's not much different from how it is now, isn't it?"

Molly, who had been dabbing at his head with a cotton pad, froze at his words. "W-what? Why would you say that?" she asked. "I know you faked your death, but you're coming back eventually." Irritably, Sherlock interrupted. "Right now, I'm a dead man. The only one who doesn't know it is you. Do you honestly believe that when I come back everything will be the same? The person I was is dead, and I don't even know who I am anymore. As much as you try to have optimism here, it's complete nonsense. It's just absolutely moronic to believe that I could make some outstanding comeback that solves everything! Sometimes, it's like you're not even trying to think. Sometimes you can just be completely ignorant!"

Molly flinched at his words, and swallowed hard. She was so hurt that no matter how hard she tried, it seemed as though she could never make Sherlock feel good about anything. Her eyes became watery, and she began to fight back tears, cursing her sensitivity. Sherlock glanced over at her and caught her expression, then realized what he'd just said. "Molly," he began in a lower tone, and this time, Molly interrupted. "Don't take this bandage off for 24 hours." she said in a shaky voice. She placed a large plastic bandage on his cut, closed the first aid kit, and left the room. A few minutes later, he heard her bedroom door click shut quietly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sat back. "Why the hell do I even do that to people?" he whispered to himself. Molly was the sweetest person he knew, and had always been so loyal to him, and then how did he repay that? He treated her like absolute crap. He traveled down to the basement, or rather, his current bedroom, lay down on his bed, put his hands together, placing them under his nose, closed his eyes, and exhaled deeply. He needed to think.

**Yay! First chapter done! I hope you guys enjoyed it, there will most definitely be more soon!**


	2. Thinking

For the first time since he'd met Irene Adler, Sherlock couldn't read into anything about Molly. Earlier when she was fixing his bandage, the look on her face was definitely hurt, but also a mixture of something else. Usually, it was just sadness or shock at how he reacted to things. He knew she got upset when he was straight forward with anything or said everything he was thinking, for example, when he told her that "Jim" was gay, or at Christmas when he was so under stress that he didn't completely think it through before blurting about how Molly was definitely there to impress one single person as a romantic interest, only to find out that the carefully wrapped present was for him. That look on her face still remained there this time, which always left Sherlock slightly confused, but this time, there was more. But he didn't think he'd ever seen it before, leaving him frustratingly puzzled.

Actually, Molly's face had a close expression to his mother's face when he was in primary school and failed his test on the solar system.

_"Oh, Sherlock," his mother said as she stared at the blank test, filled with red marks. "You didn't even write anything on here!" Mycroft smirked. "I got an A. Looks like my brother's a bloke!" "Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. "Boys!" interrupted Mrs. Holmes. "Please, Mycroft. I'm talking to Sherlock." With an ugly sneer, Mycroft left the living room and went to play with his prized train set in his room. Ms. Holmes sighed. "Now Sherlock, with your brilliant memory, how on Earth did you manage to fail this? You were so capable of memorizing every single answer!" Sherlock crossed his arms stubbornly. "Mum, that stuff isn't important. When am I ever going to use it?" Ms. Holmes set the paper down. "All right, I can see this is getting nowhere. Just go to your room, Sherlock." A tear ran down her cheek. "Mum? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. "I'm fine, sweetheart," the kind woman replied. "I'm just disappointed. Now please, go." _

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Oh, so that was it! The look on Molly's face had been disappointment mixed with her usual hurt expression when he snapped at her. But why would she be disappointed in him? This was no different than any other time that he'd snapped at her. Hadn't she learned to brush it off? Didn't she realize that it wasn't her fault when he got cross, it was all just frustration? _Well, maybe you shouldn't take it out on her, then, if it isn't her fault, you moron, _he thought to himself, and couldn't come up with any way to answer to it. He couldn't answer his own statement. Now that was infuriating.

He sighed impatiently when his mind shifted. Why did he feel bad now treating her like that? That wasn't just morality talking, it was something else. Of course he'd always felt a little twinge of guilt when he saw her face after he insulted her, but it'd never pounded at him like it was now. How could there possibly be anything different about now than there was then? Or rather, what was so different?

Then it hit him. He thought back to when he was truly looking at Molly for the first time a few weeks ago, when she'd asked him if he was sad. She'd told him about her father, and how when nobody was looking, he'd looked miserable. And that was how Sherlock looked when he thought nobody was watching, but nobody knew it. He remembered telling her that she knew, and she'd said she didn't count. That was when he saw just how much she did count. That was when he really saw her, and instead of seeing her as regular old Molly, he'd seen her for what she was; a wonderful, kind, loyal friend who truly cared for him

Friend. What an odd word. He'd never truly had friends, mainly enemies. The people who weren't his enemies usually wanted nothing to do with him, or they wanted his help with a personal problem they had. Watson was definitely a friend, but not the kind of friend that Molly was.

But that didn't make any sense! If she wasn't the kind of friend that John was, then what kind of a friend was she? As far as he knew, there were friends and, sometimes, best friends. Was Molly a best friend? No, that wasn't it. John would be in the best friend category. Urgh, then what was Molly?!

He exhaled deeply and shifted his gaze towards the door. He saw the newspaper from yesterday sitting on the nightstand, and noticed a small yellow ad for some ridiculous American show, apparently titled FRIENDZONE. How tabloidic.

Hey…wait.

Sherlock nearly hit himself, it was so obvious. Molly wasn't just a friend. Of course she wasn't, how could she be? He got up and started pacing, rubbing the sides of his head, as if he was willing for the information to build up faster. He realized just how bloody much Molly had done for him, more than he could ever do for anybody. That was the exact kind of wonderful person she was. She was the most loyal person he knew. Not only that, but she cared so much about him that she'd helped him fake a death, she'd filled out a report even though that was illegal since he wasn't dead, she'd let him use the lab any time he wanted, and now he was letting him live here. That's why she'd been disappointed! It wasn't in him, it was because she felt horrible because she was trying to make him feel better about himself here, and she was trying to make him feel as alive as he could be! How could he have missed that?

That wasn't all, though! He found out why she seemed to different from John. Honestly, this scared him to the very core, but it was also the most exciting thing he'd thought of since, well… since he faked his death. This was a different kind of excitement. Crap. He felt nervous. He didn't know that was even possible for him. It was worth it, though, because he was in love with Molly Hooper!

He was in love with Molly Hooper.

He was. In love. With. Molly. Hooper.

And she was upstairs, probably crying in her bedroom about how she couldn't make him feel better about living here and the given situation he was in.

"Oh, God," he said to himself, realizing what he'd done. "I need to fix that." Of course, he planned on eventually telling her that he loved her, but that couldn't be tonight. Neither he nor Molly would be mentally ready for that. The only thing he was positive that he would do now was do something very unnerving and unlike himself.

He was going to apologize.


	3. Two Sugars

Molly poured a cup of coffee for Sherlock. She'd bring it down for him in a few minutes, but she was giving him some time to think. Although she initially believed he was just being irrational and horrible, she realized that he'd just pretty much given up his life, which was his work. If she couldn't go to St. Bart's and do her work the way she loved to and everyone she knew albeit one person believed her to be dead, she'd probably be just as upset. There was no way to make him genuinely happy again, but she was going to try her hardest, rather than cry over it like a baby as she did half an hour ago.

She shook her head. She was a lot of things, but she shouldn't be childish. She shouldn't have stormed out the way she did leaving him unattended. _Molly, your feelings were hurt,_ a voice in the back of her head kept telling her. _You can't help that. He wasn't exactly being delightful. _She tried to counter that part of her brain with constant remarks such as, _Well, his living situation's not all that delightful. The only person he can talk to is me, boring old Molly. _The only thing she couldn't answer herself was, _Why is that so bad?_ She sighed. _I'm talking to myself. I am going mad. May as well accept that here and now._

Her thoughts were disrupted when she was startled by a rather determined looking Sherlock emerging from the basement. Confused yet smiling, she held out the coffee to him when he got closer. "Hello, Sherlock. I made you some coffee. Two sugars, just the way you like it." He looked puzzled, but shook his head and laughed. "What?" Molly asked, and he took the coffee and set it down on the counter. "Molly," he said, setting his hands on her shoulders and staring into her eyes. "What could've possibly possessed you to do that?" Molly blinked. "D-do what?" she stammered. "I-I thought it would make you feel better." Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Molly, it kills me how kind you are." Feeling stupid, Molly just repeated, "What?" He opened his eyes. "You help me fake my death, let me live at your home, take me yelling at you all the time, fix a gash on my head even though I was saying horrible things to you, and yet you're the one up here all bright and sunshiny, looking like you're trying to be the one apologizing to me, when it clearly should be the other way around."

She shrugged the best she could in his grip. "Sherlock, I'm sorry because your life is so different now, and I'm trying to make it better for you. It's… it's what friends do." She hoped that he thought of her as a friend. Of course, her dreams featured much more than that, but she knew that the only possibility was being a friend. Sadly, she wasn't even sure if he could call her a friend. More like an assistant. She knew that he used her all the time, and she meant nearly nothing to him, but she was a good person. And being a good person meant that you had to love people, even if there's no way that they could ever love you back. Besides, it was impossible for her not to love Sherlock. That drove her crazy.

Sherlock shook his head. "Molly, you simply can't apologize for anything of the sort. It doesn't make any sense to be nice to me after everything I've done to you, no matter how you put it." Wait… was he trying to apologize? Knowing he was incapable of actually saying the words "I'm sorry" in a sentence together unless they were "saying I'm sorry is for people who need to think more" or probably much more colorful than that made her feel important for the first time in a long time. Sherlock didn't apologize, to anyone. Yet here he was, clearly trying his best.

She smiled. "It's okay. I-I know what you mean." He looked into her eyes. "I don't think you do, he said simply." Then he shocked her more than anything else he'd done. He wrapped his arms around her and said in a low voice, "I am sorry, Miss Hooper." He noticed her pulse going up immensely, and a look of confusion crossed his face. "Molly, you should really calm down. I gave you a hug, not a bullet." Without thinking, she said softly, "Same affect." She then slapped her hand to her mouth. "Uh, nothing," she stammered quickly. "I, uh… d-didn't say anything. Nope! Just, um… coffee?" She held it out to an amused and puzzled Sherlock. "I don't understand you, Molly," he said simply, and took her head in his hands. He kissed her, leaving her thoughts more jumbled than they had been in forever. He then smiled, pulled away, took the coffee, and walked back down the stairs as if nothing had happened. While she remained standing in the kitchen, sure she was about to faint, she tried to remember her name, where she lived, and what just happened. She was pretty sure that Sherlock had just kissed her, something she'd dreamed about for centuries. Was she dreaming? God, her mind was cruel. But how could she be dreaming- her mind never came up with anything like that! And Toby was there, a random detail that wasn't normally in her dreams, since they were never vivid. She pinched herself and winced. Well, okay, she wasn't dreaming. Got it. So… Sherlock did just kiss her. Just now. Then why did he just leave her like that? That didn't make any bloody sense! Then again, nothing really made sense at the moment. What the- her emotions. There were way too many inside of her and she hardly felt like a person. Was her name Molly Hooper? She was almost positive that her name was Molly Hooper. But her brain didn't work, or rather, it worked too much. There were too many thoughts at the moment to process, and she felt every emotion at once from happiness to confusion to anger to bliss.

With that, she went clambering to the floor.

**I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter. Sleep deprivation can either make for wonderful writing or something more like 'meh, that was all right,' writing. I certainly hope you guys liked it, though! The next chapter will pick up more. There was a bit of a challenge writing this for whatever reason. Please R&R if you can! Thank you so much for reading!**


	4. You're Driving Me Crazy

Almost as soon as Sherlock shut his door behind him, he heard a loud _thump. _He set his coffee on the table by his bed."Molly?" he called, and rushed back up the stairs. When he saw her on the floor unconscious, he froze. What just happened? He saw her cat rubbing at her arm, as if trying to wake her up. Sherlock kneeled down beside her, alarm and panic flooding his features. He felt her wrist and took her pulse. It was a perfectly healthy rate, so she was alive. He exhaled slowly and sat back for a second, until confusion took over. "What on God's green Earth, Molly?" he mumbled irritably, and picked her up. He set her on the couch and made his way to the kitchen to make some tea. He rinsed out the kettle and put it on the stove. As soon as it was finished, Sherlock set it on the table and sat next to it so he was right in front of her. He stroked her hair. "Come on, Molly," he said softly. "Wake up."

He felt relieved when her eyes fluttered open, but he felt more confused than anything else. "So you're all right," he said in his usual monotone voice. Suddenly, she began shaking slightly and looked a little frightened as she realized the situation around her. Her eyes widened and her pupils got bigger. "Molly?" he said, alarm flashing across his calm features. "S-Sherlock," she stuttered. "Y-You m-made me f-faint! H-how did you d-do t-that? And w-why? Am I even h-home right n-now? Did you hit me with something?" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What? Of course I didn't! I came upstairs and you'd fallen to the floor like someone who'd just been shot! What happened?" "Molly, you're all right," he said soothingly. "I came up here Molly's eyes went back to normal, and she stopped shaking. She sat back, and disappointment flooded her face. "Ah, that's what happened," she said in a sad voice. Growing annoyed at her vagueness, he interjected. "Molly, you really must stop stuttering, I can't understand you very well. And please don't make me repeat myself, what happened to you?"

She sighed and smiled warmly. "I probably hit my head in there or something, and I had this silly dream that you… well," she looked down and stared into her tea. Sherlock continued to stare at her. "Molly, probably is never helpful. Probably means you don't know. And I what?" Molly looked up. "Well. Overactive imagination, that's all. Don't worry, I'm fine now whatever it is. Sorry if I bothered you." she said smiling, trying to look as if she couldn't be better.

It didn't get past Sherlock, though. He began to deduce her in his quick and brilliant way. "Molly, you are most definitely not fine. If you were, your hands wouldn't be shaking and you wouldn't be gulping down that horribly made tea like it was the best thing you ever tasted. You're clearly doing that to appear like noting is upsetting you, and on top of that you're trying to act like your optimistic self, but I can tell something is bothering you by the way your eyes are glazed over and droopy, and your smile, forgive me for saying this- is absolutely fake right now. This clearly had something to do with something that happened right before you fell or fainted or whatever you did that you're not telling me, and-" He froze. "Ah, I see."

Molly looked up. "I-I don't know… Sherlock," she began, but Sherlock cut her off and moved so he was sitting right next to her, staring into her eyes. "Molly," he said in a very serious voice mixed with something else… was that vulnerablility? She'd never known Sherlock Holmes to be vulnerable, not even when he faked his death. She listened intently, growing a new shade of pink as he kept making solid eye contact with her. "That wasn't a dream. Yes, I did apologize to you, and I did in fact kiss you. The purpose is because whether I like it or not, I might be in love with you. And I'm sorry if that scares you in the same way that it does me. I'm new to being emotional, and quite honestly, I can't stand that. I can't stand having emotions, they get in the way of just about everything, but you trigger them every time I see you." Molly swallowed. "Oh," she said. "I-I'm sorry-" Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "No, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, his voice growing frustrated. "You trigger the thing that annoys me more than just about anything, except maybe Anderson, and your kindness is absolutely killing me. The whole time I've known you, you've done things for me that I never even deserved, and you still treated me with the utmost respect, even after I did things that probably made you feel as if I had no respect for you at all."

Molly closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said quietly. "I can't help but… feel the way I do about you," she finished nervously. He took her hands. "That's the best thing about you, Miss Hooper," he said simply. "You're the most genuine person I know, and I'm just so sorry that it's as frustrating to me as it is. People aren't nice to me, that's the way it is most of the time. And I seriously doubt they feel any differently about that now that I'm 'dead'. However, you're the single person who seems to never for a second say anything about the millions of flaws I have." Molly, feeling more bold, added, "That's because you're brilliant, Sherlock."

He sighed, knowing whatever point he wanted to get across was too difficult for him to figure out all at once. "Thank you," he said plainly, giving up any attempt at finishing whatever point he was discovering that he had about Molly. Once again, he kissed her, and when he pulled back, he smiled and joked, "If you could, please leave me the honor of not fainting over that this time." Molly, once again, couldn't exactly process her emotions, so she began to stammer. "I-um, well… thank you, Sherlock. I'll t-try to d-do that." He rolled his eyes. "What am I going to do with you, Molly? You really must stop stammering. I'm just a person, not a god, if those were real." With that, Molly waited until he was gone in his room to start dancing around with Toby in her arms, thinking like a ridiculous schoolgirl, _Sherlock Holmes is my boyfriend! Sherlock Holmes is my boyfriend! _She giggled and hugged her cat. Then she stopped and stared at him, who seemed to be looking at her as if to say, _Molly Hooper, you are a grown woman with degrees. Please put me down and never do that again. _

She put him down and smiled, whispering, "Don't judge me." Toby waltzed away to his bed and sat down while Molly went off to bed, grinning from ear to ear. Before she went to bed, her phone buzzed. Expecting it to be the new girl she was training at the morgue, Mary, asking for help, she clicked it on. Molly's smile quickly faded when she saw the text from the most unpredictable man she'd ever met:

_Molly, I know what you're thinking judging by your dancing and speaking to you cat, but please don't get any funny ideas about me and you. -_SH


	5. Migraine

Molly unzipped the body bag, half expecting to hear Sherlock barging in and asking who it was, then making her shut up as he looked at it for a case. However, he was in her flat right now, doing whatever he normally did in his spare time, while she examined corpses with people stopping by every now and then to check her work and see how she was doing since "it" happened. Apparently his suicide was supposed to tear her from her work, and maybe everyone thought she was going to write down wrong causes of death or skip a file or something, because she was getting a lot of "good job"s and "Wow, Molly, this is filled out _magnificently! _Keep up the good work"s. She thought her workmates were kind to be concerned, but it somehow managed to sadden her slightly. Had everyone honestly known how crazy she'd been- or, she was, rather- about Sherlock? That was embarrassing to think about, and although a tad bit distracting, she continued to cut people open and enspect their organs without error.

She shuddered as she wondered if this would be the same if she hadn't known Sherlock was alive, or worse, if he'd actually died just a few weeks ago. She shook her head furiously, refusing to think about it. After all, it wasn't true. Well, for her. She sighed to herself in guilt when she thought about how John, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Ms. Hudson were all living in that exact state, in a world where Sherlock really was dead. It was heartbreaking to think of any of them, really. Lately, she'd tried to avoid it. Sadly, that was next to impossible for more than two minutes at a time.

Just then, there was a knock at the lab door. She set down her scalpel on a tray and rushed to open it, tossing her latex gloves in the waste bin. "Oh, hello John," she said, her heart sinking at the sight of him. He'd clearly lost weight, and he had dark circles under his eyes that he was trying to hide with his smile, and the worst part that made her want to start sobbing was the cane that she saw. He was limping again. "Please, come in. Make yourself at home. Or… as at home as you can me in a mortuary." He nodded. "Thank you. I just came here to talk to you about… Sh… him." His voice broke on the last word, and she noticed how he'd tried to say Sherlock.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, sitting down next to him in a lab chair. "How have… how have you been?" John looked over at her. "Not so well," he said sadly, his eyes brimming with tears. "Can't say Ms. Hudson's much better." Molly put her hand on his shoulder, not sure how to comfort him. She was already starting to cry. She knew Sherlock wasn't dead, of course, but seeing John so miserable reminded her how much of an impact this was on everyone else. She'd really only seen what it had done to Sherlock. This… this was far worse. Sherlock could deal with it.

"I know this is… probably hard for you, and I don't know whether I should say it, but…" John broke the silence with a sad voice. Molly looked at him. "What's wrong? You can tell me." John looked ahead of him. "He loved you, you know." She froze. "W-what do you mean?" John sighed. "Well, he told me. He admitted it, the day he…" John made a motion of something falling with his hand. He couldn't even say that he'd commited suicide. More tears began to flow down Molly's face. He started over. "He said that…And that he didn't tell you. But he wanted to. He said… that he loved you." She couldn't help it, she started to sob. John hugged her, thinking what anyone would think- someone they'd loved so much had loved them back but was now gone. But that's not why Molly was doubled over in tears.

It wasn't real.

Sherlock never loved Molly, he hardly even liked her. This was a game he played. Once again, he used silly, oblivious Molly. He said he loved her because he knew she'd probably fumble and say something to do with his survival at some point, so he told John he loved her so that it would justify her saying crazy things about things he said, or maybe he planned on her fuming about him at work and that being justified as well since she was thinking to herself about moments they'd had that weren't real. She cried because he kissed her at the flat out of gratitude, and boredom, and because he was still using her. He was still playing his sick, twisted game of 'make the silly mortician squirm' with the added bonus of playing 'keep cover in case the silly mortician messes up'.

She composed herself enough to sit back up again. "I'm so sorry, John," she said, wiping tears away from her face. "I should be helping you, not crying like an idiot."  
"Don't be silly," John replied. "That's not true. This is just as bad for you as it is me. I guess it's a mutual comfortation, if that makes sense." Molly laughed, still crying slightly. "It's not a word, but it does make sense." John chuckled. "Well, I'm sorry I barged in like this," he said. "I have to go now. I actually met someone and I'm about to go on a date with her. Name's Mary." Molly smiled. "No, I'm glad you came. I-I really am. And good for you. Good luck," she said, her voice raw and emotional.

The thoughts of _if only you and Sherlock were going on a date tonight. If only you had a source of comfort like a new loved one _made her want to hit herself. Her mind betrayed her so much, and it was all because of Sherlock. And the worst part was that as much as she wanted to blame all of this on Sherlock, she couldn't. It was her fault for believing him and not seeing that he was playing her. It wasn't his fault he'd jumped, either. He wasn't the source of John's pain. That was because of Moriarty. Yet… Sherlock was still horrible, and she could hardly believe that as angry and hurt as she was, she still loved him.

Her head hurt, and she lifted the bag over the body she'd just sewn up and left, with a quick "I'm sorry I need to leave, I'm not feeling too well" to her boss who shot her sympathetic looks. She was going home, and she silently prayed to herself that Sherlock would be in his room or wandering somewhere in disguise so that he wouldn't see her and she wouldn't see him. And at the same time, she just wanted to see him. Now her head hurt worse, and she couldn't even think well enough to hail a cab. Instead, she scrambled groggily into the alleyway next to St. Bart's and cradled her head in her hands behind a dumpster, where blackness overtook her.

**Wow. Sorry guys, that really wasn't going to be angsty or anything when I sat down to write, but… it ended up being just that! Don't worry, they'll get their happy ending at some point. ;)**

**Thank you so much for reading! And as always, I love feedback, so please feel free to leave any form of it that you want! Bye for now!**


	6. Back to Life

"Molly? C'mon, Molly, wake up." Molly's eyes fluttered open and she saw the white glare of a light that was most _definitely _way too bright for her head. Ouch. Her head. It started pounding, like she'd just hit it really hard. She looked sideways and saw the worried face of a friend of hers, Detective Lestrade. "What happened?" she asked groggily, trying to sound as unpathetic as she felt. Lestrade frowned. "We're trying to figure that out. We found you in the alley out by the hospital. You were asleep, hands on your head."

Slowly, remembrance came back to Molly, about what she'd been doing, about John, about Sherlock, and finally how it all gave her a massive migraine. This was also when she remembered how annoying the light was. "The light… it's bright." She said, squinting her eyes.

"Observation of the century."

Her eyes snapped open. "What the-" It was Sherlock's voice.

"Hey, _you _just shut up for a bit, all right?" Lestrade snapped, as he turned the dial on the ceiling lights so that it dimmed. He walked back to Molly, still speaking to Sherlock. "Seriously, you randomly showing up when everyone thought you were dead… you… God, just don't speak for a little bit. I'll get to you later."

There was an aggravated huff, and then silence as Molly processed her thoughts. "Sherlock… how's he… how is he here?" Lestrade sat down in a stool next to her. "I'm the only one who knows at the moment. Well, besides you. He showed up at my office in disguise as some woman in a cat sweater, which was sadly convincing, and…" For a brief moment, she thought, _he took my sweater without asking. That's my favorite sweater! _But she immediately snapped herself back to attention and noticed that Lestrade, had trailed off, looking at Molly with confusion.

She soon realized that her hands were pressing against her temples. She also realized that her migraine had eased into a dull pain. She was probably drugged somewhat, but surely she wasn't hallucinating. She smiled as much as she could without it hurting. "I'm sorry," she said. "Go on, I'm fine."

Lestrade leaned back. "Well, I wish I knew how to explain this to you. Sherlock's a bit… I don't even know how to describe him at the moment. I suppose I'm happy he's alive, but when he came to my office and started talking in his regular voice, it was definitely scary. I still don't know why he did that, but-"

"If you'd let me talk, you'd know by now. As if it wasn't obvious, really, I wonder why you people can't just think. I don't get nearly enough credit for not going all psychopathic on you all and throwing things at walls, because you're very difficult to deal with in extreme situations such as this one-"

"SHUT UP!" Lestrade boomed. "…Okay, fine, don't shut up. Explain yourself. But shut up."

Annoyed, Sherlock sarcastically replied, "Which one? Explain myself or shut up? You know how vagueness irritates me-"

"People faking their death both irritates and horrifies me, Sherlock! But I'm dealing with both right now. Let me talk, and then you can talk."

Sherlock sighed. "I don't get nearly enough credit for not turning into a psychopath."

Lestrade looked over in his direction, shook his head, then turned back to Molly. "Sherlock basically came in dressed as a woman, a rather ugly woman, really-"

"Well, you tried to give me your number, I wouldn't say I was ugly," Sherlock said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Ignoring him, Lestrade continued. "-and he just sat down in a chair, started talking like he was a new secretary of mine, then took off the wig and all but made me pass out. He then explained that he found two snipers of Moriarty's, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean, and killed them, and he could now come 'back to life', and then we were interrupted by a phone call from a girl named Mary asking if you were all right, so we found you in that alley. We woulda found you sooner if those paparazzi idiots hadn't been hounding Sherlock. Honestly, we had to get all of Scotland Yard to hold everyone back, it was ridiculous!"

"Not important," Sherlock interjected. "Nevertheless, Molly, you were unconscious, so you're lucky you missed all of it. It was extremely annoying."

"Two of the snipers?" Molly asked incredously. "I thought you said you had no idea… you were so frustrated, and…"

"Until I figured them out," Sherlock interrupted, sounding bored. "Either way, you're fine, and I have a case to solve. Good talk."

Lestrade turned around. "Who are the snipers? What does Mortiarty have to do with anything? You haven't answered any of my questions-"

"Honestly, Lestrade, just think!" he said angrily. "Mortiarty was never innocent. He was a criminal mastermind who was planning to kill others if I didn't kill myself, so I died. He killed himself up on the roof I jumped off of, so he obviously couldn't call them off or kill the people he was going to himself, so I had no choice. I found out who the snipers were and it didn't take too long to get their locations afte ra while."

"Then why was that little girl so scared of you?" Lestrade asked. "Screaming 'no' every time she saw your picture. You can't tell me you had nothing to do with that!"

Sherlock leaned forward and, clearly annoyed, replied, "What does it matter? I don't KNOW what Mortiarty told them, but whatever it was, it's not important anymore-"

"Everyone thinks you're a fake, Sherlock! You specifically said that you were a fake, there's proof that Mortiarty was only an actor,"

"He was a mastermind! Look," Sherlock said, in a calmer tone. "That really doesn't matter anymore. It's no longer useful. It doesn't matter what the press is saying, it's all rubbish anyway, I said I was a fake because I had to, and everything's going to be fine as soon as I find the third sniper. Lestrade, I don't understand how you've managed to not figure this out, because you're actually not an idiot, but if I really had to lay that all down-"

"Donovan and Anderson made sense of it, they said you tricked us all, it made sense!" Lestrade began defensively.

Sherlock groaned. "Oh my God, don't talk about Anderson, all my leads and brain cells will rot and I'm sure any picture of his face in our minds would be enough to give Molly another migraine-"

"Too late-" Molly managed quietly, and sat back, holding her head. The yelling had been just a bit too much for her, and the fact that Sherlock was somehow not dead anymore was too much to handle at the moment.

Lestrade turned to her. Sheepishly, he regarded her again, "Oh, erm. Apologies, Molly. We shouldn't have had that conversation here. I guess it wasn't the appropriate time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No time's appropriate for anything involving Anderson."

Lestrade grunted. "Hey! You've caused more problems today than Anderson ever has!"

Sherlock dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. "Of course he hasn't, he's boring and too moronic to pull anything off. Plus, he didn't have a thousand problems and a smart pathologist to help him fake his death."

Even through her migraine, Molly caught the complement, and nearly opened her eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said without thinking, then immediately wanted to go back in time to where she'd never said anything. _Can you go five hours without doing something stupid in front of that man? _She asked herself.

Probably not.

Sherlock looked over in her direction. "For what?" he asked, oblivious to the fact that he'd just said something nice about her. Before Molly could reply, someone burst through the door.

When she saw the cane was gone, she couldn't help but smile goofily, even though he looked more pissed off than she'd ever seen him before.

"You. Bastard!" John yelled, pointing at Sherlock. "WHO FAKES THEIR OWN DEATH LIKE THAT?!"

Molly couldn't help but laugh as Lestrade shook his head and plopped down in a chair, muttering, "Oh my God," and holding his head with one hand while John's face remained red and Sherlock's sarcastic reply returned; "Nice to see you, too, John."

**Thank you guys so much for reviewing! You always put a huge smile on my face. I'm really enjoying writing this, so thank you so much for reading, you're amazing :)**


	7. Nightmare

Despite how angry and stressed everyone looked, Molly couldn't help but feel happier than she had in weeks. "Hello, John!" she said in her usual chipper tone, and John looked at her. He smiled briefly and nodded in her direction, but was definitely distracted by Sherlock. "That was a bloody terrible thing you did to my health there, jumping off of a hospital building! You were dead, how'd you even manage to do something so ridiculous?!" Sherlock replied in a slightly amused voice, "Well, I didn't exactly do anything brilliant. It was more of an illusion than anything else. You really shouldn't have a meltdown when there's a girl in here with a slightly severe headache. And I didn't do anything to damage your health; I'm afraid that was all you, refusing to eat, crying every night and such." John quickly squinted his eyes and opened them, as if he was fighting back tears. Laughing, he replied, "I did _not _cry every night! My girlfriend would've hated that."  
"Girlfriend, now?" Sherlock said curiously. "What's this, number 16!"  
"You….no… that's not the _point_!" John yelled.  
"Ooph. Again, headache," Molly said softly, rubbing her temples. John looked over at her apologetically and sat down next to her. "Sorry, Molly," he said in his kind way. "How are you feeling?"  
"Better," Molly admitted. "Confused and amused, I suppose. It's hard not to be when three grown men are all fighting in your hospital room."

There was a slight pause, and all three men seemed to be considering what had all just happened, when suddenly they all broke out in laughter. "It's… it's true," Lestrade said between laughs. "We're all… what are we even doing right now?" Even Sherlock's face had twisted into a slight smile, but it quickly faded. "I still need to find the third sniper, though… that's going to be bothersome for a while."

A feeling of guilt surged through Molly, and she hoped that nobody noticed her quick frown. She shook it off.

John turned his head towards Sherlock. "Wait… snipers? What are you talking about?" In a rather annoyed tone, Sherlock explained to John and yet again for Lestrade about the snipers and Mortiarty's plan, and how Sherlock had reasoning behind his death. However, he conveniently managed to leave out which names were on the hit list.

John stood up. "I bloody knew it!" he cried. "I _knew _you weren't a fraud! Oh, Lestrade, you're in deep, my man!" Lestrade stood up defensively. "Hey, I had my reasons! And as I recall, I'm not the one who got arrested by punching a very important man in the face, and I'm not the one who pretended I was a hostage-"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please, you completely fell for that. Don't pretend you knew it was an act all along, you only know because I told you. It was convincing."

Lestrade looked over at Sherlock, agitation still in his features. "Why'd you play along? Why'd you say you were a fraud?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Part of the plan. I needed to."

Just then, a nurse walked in with a small tray containing some medication, a glass of water, and a needle. "All right, boys," she said. "I'm afraid you'll need to leave now. Miss Hooper still has some rest she needs to get, her head's not quite with it yet."

"Of course," Lestrade said kindly, and John nodded, standing up with him and heading for the door. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said, regarding Sherlock, "you may want to stay in here."  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed.  
"Well, there's a ton of press and paparazzi out there. It'd be best for you not to come back out of here until they've all gone home."  
"Why not tell them to just leave now-"  
"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "You've caused enough commotion for one day, haven't you?"  
Sherlock sighed, and gave in. "Fine," he said, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. "I need to think anyway."

The nurse had Molly take the medication and made small talk with her to distract her from the prick of the needle. "No need to worry about distracting me with chatter," she said politely. "I've used and taken plenty of needles before."  
"Oh, of course," the nurse said, pushing the needle into Molly's forearm. "I forgot you worked in the mortuary. You are a doctor, aren't you?"  
Molly nodded. "I'm sorry if that came out rude, it's the migraine talking. Thank you, though."  
The nurse smiled. "Believe me, honey, I've heard worse today. But I'd rather not repeat what the drunk man with a knife in his back yelled at me." Molly laughed, then held her hand to her head. Was her laugh always that annoying and loud? She'd need to work on that.

Once the nurse left, Molly looked over at Sherlock, seeing that he was moving around the air with his hands and his eyes were closed. _Oh, he's in his mind palace again,_ Molly thought, thinking back to how it frightened her the first time, because she thought he was having a seizure. She began to giggle when she thought of how angry Sherlock had been when she'd rushed to him and began to inspect him, trying to help him with her doctor instincts kicking in.

Molly settled back with a slight smile on her face, and drifted off to sleep. Her dreams, however, were very unsettling.

**[1] **_"I still have to find that third sniper though, it's very bothersome…"_

_Mortiarty grabbed Molly's arm. "I promise you, if you so much as WHISPER to your little boyfriend about this, I will SKIN you." Molly shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "I-I can't d-do that, Jim," she said in a shaky voice through her sobs. Moriarty plunged his lit cigarratte into her shoulder, burning it. She tried not to scream, but it was extremely unsuccessful. She yelped and started to cry harder. "I can't shoot anyone, I just can't-"  
"WELL, YOU PROBABLY WON'T NEED TO IF YOU KEEP YOUR PRETTY LITTLE MOUTH SHUT!" Moriarty yelled into her face, and she leaned back as much as she could in the chair he'd tied her to. She felt something cold and hard press against the side of her head. She knew it was a gun, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that four red lights were shining on her face in the reflection of the mirrored closet. She shook, and with her voice raw, replied, "…Okay. I… I will." Moriarty took the gun away, and snapped. The lights faded away from her face. "Good. Learn how to load a gun, girly, because you'll be pointing it at someone. I don't know who, but you'll get instruction when the day comes. He burned the cigarratte into her shoulder once more, making her cry out again. All the horrible things he'd tried to do to her already, and now she was being burned? This was cruel. She swallowed hard and tried to think of herself going home, drinking tea, and cuddling with her lazy cat. That didn't even help, if anything it made her cry harder, wanting desperately to go home. Moriarty groaned. "Ugh, your crying is so annoying! How DID your parents deal with it?... Oh, right. They didn't. They're dead." Molly tried to ignore it, but it replayed in her head at least five times, striking her heart like a spear. She couldn't believe he'd just said that, after everything she'd told him about her parents. "Now, get out." He growled, and untied her. Quickly, she grabbed her purse and ran out of the door. When she finally got to a street she recognized and hailed the cab, she was feeling immensely crushed about what she knew was going to happen. She covered up her mouth with her hand, tears coming faster than she could handle. The cabbie asked her if she was all right, and she simply just nodded and waved him on, her whole body shaking from fear and guilt and worst of all, sadness. _

Once she got out, a hand grabbed her, and an unforgiving voice said, "I changed my mind. It looks as if I found a replacement. Won't be needing you any longer." She was pulled into an alley and brought into a gun and the sound fired-

"Molly! Wake up," a dark voice said abruptly. Molly jolted awake, taking in her surroundings and realizing that she'd just had a nightmare. She looked over at Sherlock, breathing hard. She saw that his face showed actual concern and alarm. "I'm sorry," she said. "I-I didn't mean to interrupt your thinking or anything. I just had a nightmare and-"

"It's all right," Sherlock soothed, which was slightly out of character. "You don't have to tell me about it. I think I already know." His frown became deeper as he added, "At least I know now who the last sniper was."

* * *

**AHHH! When did I turn this all depressing and sad? Oh well, I promise they'll get their happy ending eventually. Meaning within a few chapters. There's only three left, I've loved doing this story so much, and thank you so much for reading, your reviews are so encouraging, and I appreciate you guys more than you know. You're all awesome. :D**


	8. Invitation

**Just in case you're wondering about that random footnote in that last chapter, it was supposed to be me clarifying that the italicized text was a nightmare/flashback. Hope that clears things up, sorry if it was confusing! **

**OKAY BACK TO DA FANFICTION.**

Molly groaned and felt like slamming her head against a wall. She barely had a headache anymore, but she was still trembling from her dream. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said. "I had to. If I didn't he was going to kill everyone without even giving you a fair chance-"  
"It's okay," Sherlock interrupted. "Don't worry. At least I can move on from something else, and I can put this whole silly past few weeks behind me. Looking forward to new cases. I'll only have to deal with the tedious paparazzi, and that annoying picture of me in a hat. Those aren't horrible worries, though." He stopped when he saw that Molly was still shaken. "Look, Molly, he's gone," he said as nicely as he could. "You didn't do anything wrong, and he's gone. But I do have a question: why were you screaming so loudly?"

"Oh, God." Molly knew it was coming. He was about to start deducing her, and she absolutely loathed the fact. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to catch that.

"It was like something was prodding you, or stabbing you, because you flinched your arm repeatedly, and you were holding specific spots on your arm that've had scars that I figured you'd gotten a long time ago, maybe as a teenager from scalpels in medical school, but these look too rounded to be a scalpel. They'd have to be from something small, but still can be lit and burn on one end but not the other since it had to have been something someone was holding to do that, since it couldn't have been you, otherwise you'd have burn marks on your right hand, too. But that doesn't make sense, you're left handed, actually, you're ambidextrous but you use your right hand more, and that might have been awkward to do that since you worked to become ambidextrous judging by that picture that you have of yourself when you broke your arm in third grade. No, this had to be something else that did that. Something that happened in that dream of yours… ah, I see." His tone softened. "It was Moriarty, wasn't it? My God, he burned your with a cigar, no, smaller and more harmful, a cigarette, didn't he?"

Molly closed her eyes and interjected angrily, "Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop it. Now." Sherlock looked stunned. "Why?" Molly felt herself tearing up, but refused to let Sherlock see she was about to cry. "Yes, Moriarty stuck a cigarette in my skin, and it hurt. And I still think about the day he tied me up, because it was definitely the second worst day of my life. I don't prefer to talk about that any further."  
"What do you mean, second worst?"  
Molly looked over at him, her eyes glassy. "What?"  
Sounding annoyed, Sherlock returned quickly, "You said it was the second worst day of your life, what was the worst day?"

"Mr. Holmes. The press are gone now, on a lunch break. It's safe for you to leave now, you have an escort cab home." Sherlock ignored the nurse leaning against the doorframe. "Answer me, Molly." He said. Molly cut him a look, anger flooding her. "You know what, Sherlock? No. I can't tell you the worst day of my life because it's nothing I want anyone to know about, and you're the one I especially don't want to know."  
"Mr. Holmes, she's very tired-" the nurse chimed in, but Sherlock ignored her once again.  
"Why wouldn't you want me to know? What happened?"

Molly wanted to scream. This man was impossible. "Fine, if you really must know. The worst day of my life was the day I knew you were going to die, expect I thought you actually were going to die, and I knew that Moriarty was going to kill you sooner if I told you, so it was the worst feeling to know that the person you've loved ever since they first waltzed in, went to the bloody lab, and rudely ordered coffee from you was going to die and there was probably no way to avoid it. And then what was even worse was when you got back to my flat and I couldn't really get you to wake up, and really, these have been the worst full weeks of my life, because of you. You and your pretending that you even had a slight romantic interest in me, when I was only what you wanted me to be- a pawn. And I bet you even planned for me to get a migraine, somehow, because that would be the perfect time to get out into the public. So there you have it, the worst day of my life and then some. Now if you would please give me the courtesy of leaving so I can try to stop loving you and you can go back to being the too-good-for-anybody consultant detective and I can be the once-again-fooled-by-Sherlock-Holmes-school-girl-patohlogist again, that would be absolutely wonderful."

Sherlock, for once, looked speechless. "Molly…I… there are a lot of things I faked, but that wasn't one of them. Why would you think-"

"Because!" Molly said. "You're sociopathic Sherlock Holmes. You always do things like that. It's okay that you used me, but I wish I could've caught it. Maybe next time you won't be so convincing. Or better yet, there maybe couldn't be a next time, because I can't take it anymore, because you drive me completely insane. The thing is, I loved you, Sherlock. I actually, truly did. But it's clear that you don't love me."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a while, and the nurse had left as soon as Molly had begun to yell, seeing this was a rather personal visit. Finally, he said, "I'll see you at the lab next time I have a case." With that, he stood up and left.

Molly let an angry sleep overtake her, and after what seemed like an eternity, she woke up and the nurse told her that someone was there to take her home. She was relieved to see it was John and Mary and not Sherlock.

"Hi, John!" she said pleasantly, and squealed in joy when she saw Mary had Toby with her, and she gave him to Molly, a broad smile on her face. She gave all three beings a big hug, and climbed in the cab. When she got home, she lounged around all day, waiting for the day when she could go back to work.

Two days later, Molly hung up her lab coat after another day of autopsies and reports. There was still personell giving her strange looks, as if they were looking for a reaction from Molly as to how Sherlock was still alive, but she didn't really give them much to gossip about. She just acted like her regular, chipper self and hardly ever left to morgue until closing, avoiding any unwanted appearances outside the doors. Even though she hated herself for it, she still couldn't help but wish that she would hear Sherlock come in one day, or find that he'd been there, with things scattered about or broken slides beneath the microscope, but she never found any trace of him.

She shivered slightly, remembering everything she'd said to Sherlock the last time she'd seen him. She was glad she'd said it; she couldn't keep it bottled up inside forever… right? All of it confused her, but thankfully, not enough for a migraine. She was able to push that emotion back a little, and she felt a million times better because of it. When she'd first gotten home, she'd seen that there was absolutely no trace of Sherlock anywhere- he was completely gone from her flat, which she told herself was fine by her. However, she couldn't help but realize that it wasn't fine by her.

As she walked by Baker Street, she heard a familiar voice. "Molly!" she turned around and smiled brightly. "Hello there, Mary!" she said kindly, giving her friend a hug. "How are you on your day off?" Mary smiled. "Never been better. Baker Street is difficult to live at, though. So hectic with cases and whatnot! And I'm usually no help anyway, so I've been strolling about all day. It's been relaxing. How about you?" Molly began to think about cases and how Sherlock must be having field days with all the crime to catch up on. He probably thought nothing of her at the moment. She forced the thoughts to the back of her mind and continued her mindless chatter with Mary. "I'm just fine, thank you!" she replied.  
"Got any plans for Christmas this year?" she asked.  
"Oh, no, can't say I do!" Molly said, and the thoughts about the horrible last Christmas Eve she'd had buzzed through her mind. She couldn't push that one back. She flinched a little, thinking about Sherlock's harsh words from then. He'd apologized, but it still stung when she thought about it.  
"Molly? Are you okay?" Mary asked, looking concerned. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine," Molly said reassuringly as she could. "I just saw a sort of… mangled body today. It was a bit mind blowing is all. Scary to think about, I guess." She shrugged.  
"I know it's about Sherlock, dear." Mary said slowly. "It's okay. He's a bit insane without you, believe it or not." Molly scoffed. "Come on, Mary. I highly doubt he cares anything for me."  
"Well," Mary shifted her feet, she smirked, the same face she had every time she got an idea. "Why don't you come see for yourself? We're having a Christmas party tomorrow. Would you like to come?" "Oh… sure," Molly replied, not sure, but feeling as though she needed to. "What time?"  
"Around 6."  
"Sounds great, I'll see you then!" she nodded, and the two girls walked their separate ways home.

Molly was hoping to resolve things with Sherlock, to where they'd be on speaking terms. Maybe they could even become friends again. If they ever were friends.

Her heart sank a little as she thought, _Well, he said it himself. He doesn't have friends._

Quickly, she shook her head and smiled. Maybe she could reconvince him of that. It was worth a try, and this was a stressful time anyway. Maybe she could be a Christmas miracle for him, and hopefully something more.

Well, it wasn't probable, but she kept herself in high spirits, pretending it was.

**All right! This chapter was pretty long, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. This was less angsty than the last chapter, I think. But like I said, it'll get happier! That is… after it possibly crashes and burns…. Or will it? Mwahahaha. **

**I have too much fun with these author's notes.**

**Okay, a new chapter will be posted soon! Thank you for reading! :D**


	9. Merry Christmas, Miss Hooper

_We wish you a merry Christmas,_

_We wish you a merry Christmas,_

_We wish you a merry Christmas,_

_And a happy new year!_

"Can you turn that off?" Sherlock complained, as he tried to fix the bridge on his now in-need-of-repair violin. "That's the single most annoying Christmas song I've heard in my life." John smirked. "You're just mad because you broke your violin trying to play it."  
"I wasn't trying to play it, I _was _playing it!" Sherlock said sharply. "The violin just couldn't handle the bow."  
"Yeah, the bow couldn't handle it, either," John replied, and turned up the radio a few more notches.

Sherlock muttered to himself about ignorant flatmates just as the doorbell rang. Ms. Hudson hurried to the door, and smiled brightly. "Hello there, dear! You must be Mary! It's so nice to meet you. I've heard plenty of things about you from old Johnny here!" John rushed over and waved Ms. Hudson off jokingly. "Oh, how about we not linger on that?"  
"No, we should linger on that!" Mary laughed. "And then you might want to get out baby pictures!" she said kindly to Ms. Hudson. The old housewoman crossed her arms and pouted. "I'm not _that_ old!" Sherlock laughed once to himself. "See, Christmas is only the time for mess ups and meaningless socialization. Good thing nobody I care for is coming over."  
"Nice to see you, too, Sherlock!" Mary replied sarcastically, while John had a failed attempt of glaring at the careless detective.

"Excuse me for a second, love," John said to Mary. "Maybe Ms. Hudson needs some help putting up those picture frames over there!" Mary smiled and shrugged, then waltzed up the staircase where the happy housekeeper had gone.

After staring after her for a second to make sure she was gone, John immediately strode over to Sherlock. "Could you try to be a gentleman for five minutes?"  
"She didn't seem to care," Sherlock replied simply.  
"Well, she doesn't, but Molly might…" John trailed off.  
"Molly's coming? God, John, I told you not to invite her!" Sherlock said angrily, snapping his head up. "The last thing I need in my life right now is someone who throws me off left and right!"  
John scoffed. "Sherlock, I have a feeling that she's _exactly _what you need. It's only human to care about people, you don't need to swat her away like an annoying fly-"  
"John, I don't believe your simple mind understands this, but I don't understand her. She is the sole thing that is distracting me from my work constantly. I almost couldn't tell that the man on the Maury show was most definitely _not _the father due to the fact that he was obviously and clearly gay and didn't live anywhere _near _a sperm bank so it was clearly obvious that he was incapable of having a child with blue eyes, especially since his were brown! You want to know why I didn't understand that for a while? Because of Molly Hooper. She has to crawl into my mind all the time like she belongs there or something, and it's ridiculous! She's a virus on my hard drive that not even the best hackers can get off. It's horrible. So you can only imagine why I don't want her here!"

John pursed his lips for a moment, then chose his words carefully. "Sherlock, you love her. Talking to her would probably get her off of your mind, believe it or not, but I bet if you would just look right in front of you and get together with her, you definitely wouldn't feel so alone anymore-"

"First off," Sherlock interrupted. "Love isn't an emotion that I possess. Second, talking to her would most definitely _not _get her off of my mind; I would think about her more. And I don't feel alone, in fact, I can't be left alone anymore because she always pops up in my mind."

Before John could respond, there was a shy knock at the door. "Well, you'll just have to deal with it," John said hastily before opening the door. "Hello Molly!" he said warmly. "Please, come in!"  
"Why, thank you," Molly said kindly. "Oh, here's your present. It's wrapped nicer this time. Last year it was a bit modest." She giggled nervously and John laughed. "Thank you, that's so sweet of you. Oh, speak of the devil who told you that, Sherlock, say hello!" John called as if there hadn't even been a discussion between the two before. "Miss Hooper," Sherlock said coldy, and purposefully took out the bridge and began to fix it all over again, cursing Molly for making him feel uncomfortable in his own home. He could already feel his brain turning off, and it bothered him immensily.

"Oh, I know you probably don't want it, but I got this at the morgue, and I figured you'd want it instead of a sweater or a pair of socks for Christmas," Molly said, ignoring his tone, and set down a green jar beside him. Sherlock glanced down and saw a human brain, then immediately remembered the conversation he'd had with her three weeks ago.

_"I need a human brain," Sherlock said. "This brain diagram is completely off. The frontal lobe is too disfigured to figure out anything to do with the affect of a car accident. Molly, are there any brains at the morgue?"  
"Well, yes," Molly returned sheepishly, "But none of them are at my disposal right now. The only people we have in there right now that we can do anything we want to are two three-month-olds, and their brains wouldn't be fully developed yet."  
"Very well," Sherlock replied, trying to sound like his usual monotone self, but Molly could tell he had a tone of disappointment. He had been trying to test brains ever since the fall, but he hadn't succeeded in doing so since all there was for him to use was a plastic 3D model of a brain, half melted from when it had been accidentally placed by the radiator. On that day, Molly promised herself that she would try to get a brain for him to experiment on. It was the least she could do for him, his life wasn't all that good at the moment. _

Even when Sherlock returned, Molly still found one from a homeless man brought to the morgue for decomposition and jarred it, deciding that Sherlock would probably still want to get back to it. It had been the day before Christmas Eve at the time, so Molly had no problem with it becoming unusable before she could get it to him.

Sherlock's facial expression softened. "Thank you, Molly. That was…thoughtful of you." Molly smiled. "No problem." Just then, Mary came bounding down the stairs, Ms. Hudson following closely behind. She looked slightly pale. "John, why is there a human's small intestine in a picture frame in the hallway?"  
"It's a lot to put up with, dearie, trust me," Ms. Hudson replied instead of the confused doctor. "You framed a small intestine?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged. "For an experiment."  
This is when Mary caught sight of Molly. "Molly, you came! Merry Christmas Eve!" she said happily, giving her friend a hug. Molly smiled. "Merry Christmas Eve!" Mary stepped back and stood beside John, examining Sherlock and Molly, standing next to each other. "So, are you two… together yet?" Mary asked without thinking. Flushing Molly responded, "N-no! W-we're not. Um." Sherlock said nothing, but stood up and walked out.

Mary's eyes widened. "Oh! I am so sorry, I really didn't mean to!"  
"It's okay," John said quickly. "I'm sure he's just a bit touchy right now. You know, pretending you're dead and then coming back can, uh… wear at the nerves!" he finished with a little laugh. "Okay, how about some tea? Ms. Hudson!"  
"Not your housekeeper!" Ms. Hudson called back, followed by the sound of a tea kettle whistling. "Excuse me," Molly said, and walked out to the balcony to find the missing detective.

"Sherlock," she said when she saw him leaning over the railing. He didn't respond. "Come on, that's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"  
"Why did you deny it?"  
"Deny what?"  
"Why did you say we weren't together?" Sherlock asked, sounding hurt for the first time that Molly had ever seen.  
"Well, because we're not," Molly stammered. "Y-you said not to-to get any funny ideas."  
"I know I did, but honestly, every time you get into my mind, which is a lot, I have to try and shove you out of it. It's the most maddening thing in the world, more annoying than Moriarty. It's more addictive than drugs, and you never leave my brain when all I want to do is concentrate and try to solve a case! It's so annoying that I literally wish I could delete you out of my brain, but I can't because I somehow actually care about someone, and that happens to be you."  
Molly, speechless, started feeling tears roaming down her face. "Oh," was all she could manage.  
Sherlock wiped away her tears with his thumbs, holding her face in his hands. "And the crying. You crying is probably worse than everything I just listed, so please never do that. Molly, I do love you, but it's ectremely difficult. I can't be a boyfriend nessasarily that gives you gifts all the time and never forgets your birthday or our anniversary, but I can try my hardest, and that's all you can ask of me."  
Molly's face turned a scarlet shade of red. "You-you love me?" she squeaked.  
He groaned. "You can't make this easy, can you? Of course not. Yes, I love you, Molly Hooper."

With that, he leaned down to kiss her, and it seemed to last for several days, until she heard someone clearing their throat behind them, and she pulled away. Sherlock shamelessly said in his normal baritone, "What do you need, John?"  
Trying to muffle his laughter at Sherlock while Molly continued to blush, John said while snickering. "Sorry to break it up, but the drinks are ready. I know you both don't really drink, but if you don't Ms. Hudson will believe that there's something wrong with her. You know, problems with the husband and all." He shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Best to keep her happy. Come on."

The rest of the evening seemed unforgettable in a way. It was most definitely a longshot from last year's disaster. Ms. Hudson was delighted that everyone seemed to love her food and drinks so much, the gifts were all kind and thoughtful (well, as thoughtful as Sherlock knew how to get, it was sweet for his level of emotion) and Molly finally felt as happy with Sherlock as Mary and John looked.

"Oh, I should probably go now," Molly said around midnight as Mary went upstairs, completely drunk and unfit to go home. Ms. Hudson and John had followed. "All right, be safe," Sherlock said. He kissed her again at the doorstep. "Merry Christmas, Miss Hooper." He shut the door as Molly began to walk down the street to hail a cab.

The night had been perfect, every little thing about it. She couldn't help but smile as she thought of all the wonderful things that had happened and the wonderful things that were to become of the rest of the winter. She pulled her coat tighter around her as she felt the air growing somewhat colder, and she suddenly felt a little frightened. She didn't know how, but the streets were nearly empty. She figured it was just that everyone was snug in their homes given that it was Christmas Eve, so of course the only people down there at this hour would be tourists trying to hail cabs. She laughed at her stupidity and continued down.

However, when she passed an alley, something hard hit the back of her head, her vision crossed, and she went crashing to the ground as she heard the horrible voice that appeared in all her dreams, mimicking the one she immediately wished she'd stayed with at 221 B Baker Street. "Merry Christmas, Miss Hooper."

* * *

**Hey, don't give me that look, you knew that was coming!  
I needed to mess with you guys just a little bit, right? *crickets chirp and angry voices fill the room***

**Please don't kill me! I'M SORRRRYYYYY!**

**She's not dead though, if that's what you're thinking. This is the next to last chapter, and I know I keep saying this, but the happy ending will occur! Anyway, as always thank you so much for reading and I promise the conclusion will be out within a few days! **


	10. Thank You for Saving Me

When Molly awoke, she saw that she was leaning against the wall of the alley. Moriarty hadn't even taken her anywhere. She found herself to be dressed, thank God- and perfectly fine other than the pounding in her head. Unfortunately, she found that to be wrong when she noticed that her wrists were bleeding from the fibers of the rope that bound her hands and ankles together, and she winced when she began to feel the pain of her circulation being cut off.

"Aw, she's awake!" the psychopathic voice exclaimed, and Molly squeezed her eyes shut in fear. The last thing she wanted was to see him- the person that had given her so much emotional and physical stress- the person that put both her and Sherlock through way too much. Mortiarty smirked and took out a whip.

Molly yelped in surprise and pain when the leather hit her arm, forming a new cut just above her elbow. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, love, it's very rude to look away," Mortiarty said casually. "Although, I do quite love using the whip. It's the best way to get people to listen to you. Miss Adler was truly correct about that." He sighed. "Looks like she wasn't correct about one thing, though. Can you guess, dearie?"

Shaking her head slowly and trying to free her wrists, Molly didn't respond verbally. "EXCUSE ME, I ASKED A QUESTION, LOVE!" Morarty's voice yelled, and she felt the whip smack against her arm again. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes from the pain. "N-no… I d-don't know," she stammered. Mortiarty sat down across from her. "Oh, of course you don't. You see, Miss Adler believed that Sherlock wasn't romantic in the slightest, and she couldn't ever tempt him with anything. I couldn't, either. Which is a shame, if you ask me; I think we would've made a marvelous couple. However, the git never called me. So sad."

"But somehow, you, Molly dearest, have made him love you. You know, I was going to leave you alone. I left you off of my hit list, and I let you become a sniper. All you were going to do was shoot the old woman, if anything. You would've been just fine, even now! Except, you see, you kept a few things from me. A few very, VERY important things."

"First," Mortiarty continued, collecting his whip and walking towards Molly, smirking. "You weren't supposed to help Sherlock live. That was NOT a part of my conditions in order for you to live, you worthless SLUT!" He smacked her again with the whip, this time with a much harder force with a blow to the side of the head, making things begin to look fuzzy. Molly began to cry. "N-no, you were dead! Y-you couldn't-"  
"SHUT UP!" Mortiarty bellowed, and hit her again, this time in the arm. She fumbled with her wrists, trying to distract herself from the searing pain in her arms and face. "Second of all," Mortiarty carried on sickly, "You then told him that YOU WERE A SNIPER! And you let him kill the OTHER TWO! I think that's worthy of three, don't you?"

One.  
Two.  
Three.

_Smack._

Molly screamed at the agony. Her face was bleeding, as were both of her arms, her mind was racing, and she prayed constantly to herself that someone-anyone- would hear her and save her. She knew that only happened in fairy tales, though. This could very well be the day she died. She wished that he hadn't tied her up, she could at least try to run, or fight back. She was decent at defending herself, but it was useless if she couldn't move.

As she waited for another blow that was no doubt going to come from the mad man, an all too familiar voice pierced the cold air.

"Moriarty. You better hope to God you're not doing what I just saw you doing."

Sherlock's voice was full of rage and horror, another emotion Molly had never seen Sherlock with. Well, at least the horror part. She'd never known him to be afraid of anything.

Moriarty smirked and dropped his whip. "Too bad I was doing what you saw. Otherwise I wouldn't have been doing it. You know, for a brilliant man, you can be really stupid sometimes."  
"I'm going to blow your brains out," Sherlock said with his teeth gritted. "How dare you."  
Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Well, if she means that much to you, she's right there. HELLO. You can easily just go over to her and treat her wounds. Sure, I'll run away, but she needs medical attention pretty quickly. And I don't think you'd kill me right away-"

For the first time, Sherlock did something without going into a battle of wits first. He fired his gun three times into Mortiarty's chest, missing him once but getting a perfect killshot with the other two rounds. This time, there was no doubt that he was dying, and that it was truly him. "Didn't you-want to know-how I faked it?" Moriarty rasped.  
"No," Sherlock replied angrily. "You took it too far. It's been awful knowing you. Goodbye."  
Moriarty let out one more evil laugh, and eventually stopped breathing, clearly dead on the ground, blood surrounding him completely.

"Are you all right? Oh God, no you are not all right," Sherlock ran towards her and began to unknot the rope from Molly's wrists. "John!" he called over his shoulder, and soon John came crashing into the alleyway. "Sherlock! What the bloody- oh." John stopped when he took in the situation. Moriarty dead on the ground, blood pooling around the corpse. When he caught sight of Molly, his doctor's instincts kicked in, and he rushed to her. "God, what did he do to you?" he asked, horrified.  
"Whip," Molly mumbled through her incoherent, ragged breathing, her head pounding way too hard for her to muster a better explanation. "How is he not dead? How?" John asked hurriedly, cleaning the cut in the side of Molly's head with a handkerchief. "I don't know," Sherlock replied, and looked up at Molly. "This is going to hurt, okay? I'm sorry. One, two, three." He ripped off the rope from Molly's wrists, and she yelped. Even through the pain, she manged to blush, embarrassed at her pitiful-sounding voice. She was already crying and breathing like she'd just run a marathon, she didn't need to scream and make things worse.

"I'm sorry, it's okay now," Sherlock soothed. "John, we need to get her back to the flat. I doubt we can do much out here." He finished unknotting the ropes around Molly's ankles, and the agonizing tearing from the skin made her scream again. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I m-made everything h-harder." John and Sherlock lifted her up. "Nonsense, love," he said gently. "You didn't do anything, except get victimized by that…" Sherlock didn't finish, but Molly got the message. She still hated the fact that Moriarty had ruined the first few hours of Christmas morning for everyone involved, but the relief was so overwhelming that she couldn't seem to bring herself to care.

In the flat, once John had treated her wounds and carefully pressed and wrapped bandages, and Ms. Hudson had kindly delievered her tea and given her the world's most symphathetic hug, the woman and the doctor left to go have breakfast, and leave Sherlock and Molly alone.

"Molly, are you sure you're all right now?" Sherlock asked, his voice still full of concern. "If you need anything else, let me know." Molly shook her head and smiled. "I'm perfectly okay, Sherlock. Thank you. I don't know what he would've done if-"  
"How do you do that?" Sherlock interrupted thoughtfully.  
"Do what?" Molly asked.  
"Smile. You do that all the time, and they're genuine smiles, not the kind of fake smiles you'd see on the news. You're always so chipper and lighthearted, even right now, when you've been through a lot of stress and horror for the past few months, especially the past few hours. How?"  
Molly laughed once. "Because I have a lot to be grateful for. I have beautiful, wonderful friends who have helped me so much, and have just saved my life. I'm grateful that I have an amazing job, and that John is so kind, and that Mary is such a great friend and co worker, that I haven't ended up like my parents despite recent events and dangers, that I always have somewhere to go at the end of the day, and that I still have my life. And," she added, her eyes sparkling. "I have you, Sherlock."  
Sherlock smiled at this as well, and kissed her, then held her in a tight embrace.

"Merry Christmas, Molly."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

* * *

**AWW! I hope you guys enjoyed that story as much as I loved writing it. That was a magical adventure, and I can honestly say I'll never forget this right here, completing my first fanfiction. And I have you guys to thank for it. I never, ever in this universe imagined that my little daydream snippets of writing would actually get over 6,000 views and counting, and over 30 reviews, and I want to thank you so, SO MUCH for that. It means more than you'd know, and just... thank you.**

**Okay, sappy time over. **

**No it's not.**

**THANK YOU SO MUCH. Guys you really, really, REALLY have no idea how touched I've been at reading your reviews, how entertaining and awesome you guys are, and you're just completely amazing, and I'm lucky to have you crazy kids reading my stuff like it's worthy of the attention it's gotten.**

**So thanks, and I really mean it.**

**I hope you enjoyed this story, that was the last chapter. So... that's all, folks! Thank you :)**


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